


if i had to walk the world

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [16]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Comfort, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Families of Choice, First Kiss, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage, Married Couple, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: There was still a shitload of stuff in the basement of Bill’s parents’ place, and, apparently sick of it, they’d decided to pack it all up and get rid of it. Georgie mailed it all out to New York to be divvied up amongst the Losers, so nothing ended up in the trash, but it does mean that Richie and Eddie have been sifting through a lot of old memories in their spare time.“Look,” Eddie says, digging into the huge box from Georgie and lifting out a shoebox. Richie looks up from dressing Riley in one of his old t-shirts from the box. When he leans over, he can readfor the losers, if IT comes backwritten in marker on the lid of the box, in Bill’s handwriting. Eddie pops it open.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Past Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris – Relationship, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 27
Kudos: 410





	if i had to walk the world

**Author's Note:**

> it chapter 2 digital release. so much bonus content. overwhelming. overloaded. had to step back and write something to process, and this is that something! enjoy!!
> 
> Title taken from ["The Promise"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HI_xFQWiYU) by When In Rome.

There was still a shitload of stuff in the basement of Bill’s parents’ place, and, apparently sick of it, they’d decided to pack it all up and get rid of it. Georgie mailed it all out to New York to be divvied up amongst the Losers, so nothing ended up in the trash, but it does mean that Richie and Eddie have been sifting through a lot of old memories in their spare time.

“Look,” Eddie says, digging into the huge box from Georgie and lifting out a shoebox. Richie looks up from dressing Riley in one of his old t-shirts from the box. When he leans over, he can read  ** _for the losers, if IT comes back_ ** written in marker on the lid of the box, in Bill’s handwriting. Eddie pops it open.

“What’s in there?” Richie asks, setting Riley on the ground. She almost trips over the end of the shirt as it drapes past her feet, and he sets her back upright.

“Letters,” Eddie says. “Still sealed, look.” He lifts out one that says  _ richie w. tozier, esq.  _ on the front, in what Richie remembers as his handwriting.

“Oh, fuck, I remember this,” Richie says. He snatches the letter from Eddie and slides his finger under the seam, tearing it open. There’s a red watercolor balloon in the upper right corner that he remembers painting into place with Ben. Eddie’s tearing open his own letter, eyes skimming over whatever he wrote. He laughs, softly. “What is it?”

“I wrote a lot of shit I wish I’d remembered,” Eddie says. “Telling myself about my mom. Reminding myself what I’d done.”

“My husband kills monsters,” Richie says, reeling Eddie in with an arm looped around his neck. “Damn fucking right. Show me the letter.”

Eddie holds it up so Richie can read it over his shoulder. Out loud, Eddie reads, “‘I would die for my friends. They are my everything. But never tell Richie that. He will fuck with you until the day you die.’”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Then, Richie says, “And even then, I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“Thank fuck you didn’t,” Eddie says. He’s still quiet, eyes skimming the letter. The handwriting is so painfully familiar, the same childish handwriting that Eddie put on a thousand notes that Richie kept hidden in the special shoebox under his bed.

“‘Never forget how brave you have become,’” Richie reads off Eddie’s letter. Eddie sniffles.

“What a waste of time,” Eddie says. Richie knows exactly what he means, and kisses him on the top of his head again. “That clown wasted so much of our  _ fucking  _ time.”

“Yeah, Eds, he did,” Richie says. Eddie’s quiet again. “Love your postscript. Did you marry hot enough, baby?”

“Shut up,” Eddie snaps, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s smiling.

“I’m no Pam Anderson, but, lucky for you, I  _ am  _ a middle-aged comedian in the age of the dad bod. I’m  _ in  _ now,” Richie tells him. Eddie snorts a laugh, so Richie picks his own letter back up again. “Wanna see mine?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, a little lighter, leaning into him. Richie snaps out his letter and lets Eddie read it from his hands. He feels Eddie’s face twist up.

“What’s wrong?” Richie asks. “I correctly predicted that I’d do cocaine at some point.”

“Incorrectly predicted that Michelle Pfeiffer would have any interest in fucking you,” Eddie comments. “No, I just— You had a hard time, didn’t you?”

Richie’s quiet. Eddie’s letter is detailed, telling him exactly what his mother had been doing to him, telling him exactly what he was capable of. Eddie forgot it all, but it was always inside of him. Richie knew that, even if Eddie didn’t.

“‘There was a reason you were never home,’” Eddie reads aloud, from Richie’s letter. Richie rubs at the back of his neck. “‘You were too busy hanging out with your  _ real _ family. These are the people who get you. These are the people that love you. These are the people who you love.’”

“Fuck,” Richie says, voice breaking. He tips his head back and feels the tears start to spill before he even realizes he’s going to start crying.

“‘Eds,’” Eddie murmurs, touching his fingertips to his own name on the paper in Richie’s handwriting. “‘But  _ when _ things get bad—’ Richie.”

“I knew,” Richie jokes, laugh hitching on the tears. “Fuck.”

_ “‘When _ things get bad,’” Eddie starts again, “‘You gotta remember this summer. The scarier it gets, the funnier you are.’”

Richie picks Eddie’s letter up, reads, “‘I hope that one day you muster up the courage to leave Mommy and this hellhole. Don’t be afraid.’”

Eddie plucks both letters out of their hands and sets them aside. Riley smacks at Richie’s legs with her open palms, and so he scoops her up, tucking his face into her hair. The shirt she’s got on still smells like his childhood bedroom, sort of, and Bill’s house, and Eddie’s cologne, and now Riley’s baby smell. He sighs.

“Never forget how brave you have become,” Richie repeats. Eddie turns his face into Richie’s side, hand coming up to cup his jaw.

* * *

“Okay, Big Bill, take it, I don’t wanna see it again until I’m an old man,” Richie exclaims, tossing the sealed envelope at Bill. He grabs it out of the air, laughing, and spikes it down into the shoebox. Bev hands hers over, too, and Mike drops his in beside hers.

“What’re you writing, the next fucking great American novel?” Richie asks, dropping down next to Eddie on the ground. Eddie turns his back to Richie, shoving him away.

“Don’t read over my fucking shoulder, dickwad,” Eddie snaps. Richie drapes himself over Eddie’s back anyways, but he doesn’t read what he’s writing. Eddie signs his letter, hesitates, then glances up at Richie. After a moment, he scribbles a postscript down at the bottom of his letter, then folds it up and seals it away in the envelope Bill gave him.

“What, don’t wanna include any naked pictures to look at when you’re old and gross?” Richie asks, watching Eddie carefully place his letter into the box. Stan sets his right on top of Eddie’s, and Ben’s goes in besides his. Bill finishes his last, signing the bottom and dropping it in with the rest of the letters. He closes the thing up and tapes it shut, then sticks it in the corner of his basement.

“I’ll take it w-with me,” Bill says. “When I m-move out. And we’ll s-s-s-see them again.”

“Hopefully fucking  _ not,”  _ Richie comments, yanking Eddie down onto the ratty old sofa with him and somehow managing to catch an elbow to the nose. “Since reading them again means It fucking came back.”

The basement goes quiet all over again. Eddie tucks his head into Richie’s shoulder, arm draped across his chest. He’s all warm weight and soft breaths, and Richie has to tip his head back and look at the ceiling so his heart doesn’t pound right next to Eddie’s ear.

“Let’s play a game,” Ben suggests.

“Yeah, this is a total drag,” Richie agrees. “What do you wanna play, Benny-boy? Seven minutes in heaven?”

“Not with you, Trashmouth,” Ben laughs. Richie smiles, looks away, but doesn’t laugh. Eddie’s not laughing, either.

“Spin the bottle?” Bev suggests.

_ “N-No,”  _ Bill insists, and Richie snorts a laugh.

“Would you rather?” Mike offers.

“Never have I ever?” Ben tries instead.

“These are all  _ lame,”  _ Richie exclaims. “We’ve done these a  _ thousand  _ times, we know everything at this point.”

“Let’s just play t-truth or dare, then,” Bill says. He drags the moth-eaten loveseat closer to the sofa so the Losers can pile up on each other. Eddie doesn’t move, though, so neither does Richie, keeping Eddie tucked right up under his arm. Stan drops himself on Richie’s legs, folding up and around him, and Bill’s curled up near his feet. Bev crams herself in between Mike and Ben on the loveseat, arms wrapped around her bent legs, chin resting on her knees.

“Or just truth,” Bev suggests. They’re all so tangled up, she has a point. Plus, Richie just kind of wants to sit with his friends, just for a while. This summer has been miserable, but it’s also been the greatest time of Richie’s life, being with the other six Losers. The only family he’s ever known, really. The only  _ real  _ family he’s ever had. “Truth or dare, Ben?”

“Just truth,” Ben agrees.

“What was your favorite day this summer?” Bev asks. Ben actually considers the question before he speaks.

“The day Bowers caught me,” Ben says, “and I met you guys.”

“The day he literally carved you open and I had to stitch you together in an alley? That day?” Eddie demands. “That day was  _ horrible,  _ Ben. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“If it hadn’t happened, I never would have met you guys,” Ben explains. Eddie goes quiet. Richie buries his face in Eddie’s hair, smiling to himself. “It’s worth it.”

“Would that we all could get so lucky,” Richie murmurs into Eddie’s hair. He hears his friends laugh, so he lifts his head, grinning. “Hey, maybe we can all try it and spell something out. We’ve already got an H, how about an O—”

“Beep, beep, Richie,” Mike says.

“Truth or dare, Rich?” Ben asks.

“Truth,” Richie says, because they’re all going to pick truth.

“I feel like I’m still getting to know you,” Ben says, which isn’t a question. “Some of the stuff you guys just know about each other from growing up together — I don’t know any of it.”

“That’s not a question, Haystack, spit it out,” Richie laughs. Eddie pinches Richie’s arm.

“Have you kissed anyone, Richie?” Ben asks, and Richie has to look to Stan before looking away. He doesn’t even mean to, it’s involuntary.

“I— Yeah,” Richie says, before he gathers himself. “Fucking— Of  _ course  _ I have, Handsome, who wouldn’t want a piece of  _ this?” _

“Who?” Eddie asks, lifting his head. He looks all soft and rumpled, like this, hair a mess from digging into Richie’s shirt. “You kissed someone and didn’t tell me?”

Richie looks to Stan again, panicked. Stan’s looking back with a serene expression, but his eyes are wide and his pupils are huge and he’s staring right at Richie.

The thing is, he  _ has  _ kissed someone. He’s kissed Stan. He took Stan into his room when they were both ten years old and told him everything,  _ everything,  _ his feelings about Eddie and how he’s starting to want to kiss  _ boys  _ and how the Paul Bunyan statue in the center of town made him want to scream and he doesn’t know  _ why. _

Stan had just looked at him and said, “Do you want to try it and see?”

“Try what?” Richie had asked, sniffling into his sleeve. He doesn’t know  _ why  _ he’s crying, he just knows he  _ is,  _ because he’s— he’s dirty and wrong and he can’t lose Stan, not  _ Stan,  _ but he can’t lie to Stan, either, and Stan  _ asked,  _ so he had to  _ say— _

“Kissing a boy,” Stan had said. He had been taller than Richie, then, because Richie hadn’t hit his second growth spurt just yet. “We can try, if you want to.”

Richie had sobbed, had said, “You don’t— You don’t think I’m disgusting? You don’t want me to—”

“No,” Stan had said, “no,  _ no,  _ Richie—” And had kissed him then, so softly, right at the corner of his mouth, and Richie had cried through it. His first kiss, and he’d sobbed through the whole thing.

Stan had pulled back, said, “Mm. Okay,” like he knew what the fuck he was doing. For Richie, it just broke him open. He couldn’t see any girls like he was seeing Stan in that moment, like he saw Eddie every day. He couldn’t imagine kissing any of the girls at school and feeling the same shaking, heart-pounding,  _ exploding  _ feeling he had inside his ribcage right then.

“I—” Richie had said, then stopped. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Sure,” Stan had agreed, and Richie had taken the lead the second time, had cupped Stan’s face in his hands and kissed him so softly that Stan had smiled and said, “You’re allowed to touch me, Richie.”

Richie  _ had  _ touched him, kissed him two more times before bursting into tears again. Stan had just hugged him, stroked his hair and held him until he could breathe.

“I think I like boys,” Richie had told him, tearfully, at the end of it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stan had replied, and Richie had laughed and laughed until his dad started pounding on his locked door, when he and Stan had crawled out the window and escaped to the Clubhouse to try again.

It's practice, is all. Stan is figuring things out and Richie is figuring things out and they don’t really talk about it all that much, except when Richie cries to Stan when he’s torn up over loving Eddie and the two of them just sit and talk about what things might get to be like someday. Richie never believes any of it, but it’s nice to think about.

The Losers are still looking at him, in the basement, in the present, while he thinks about his first kiss with Stan and his second kiss (also with Stan) and all the kisses he’s had since then. Not many, but a few, only with girls. Nothing like that again.

He looks at Eddie again, says, “Nobody you guys would know. She goes to another school.”

“Oh, I’ve heard th-that one before,” Bill laughs. Richie takes the easy out, grins and laughs with him, hoping that Eddie will stop looking at him like that. He remembers the names he’d scrawled at the bottom of his letter to his future self:  _ Eds, B-Bill, Stan, Ben, Mike, Bev.  _ The only family he has, his only  _ real  _ family. He’d never do or say anything to jeopardize his place in that family,  _ never. _

“Eds, truth or dare?” Richie asks, to shove the attention off himself. Stan’s hand wrapped around his ankle feels like a brand, and Eddie tucked up against his chest is a contained ball of fire, burning Richie from the inside out. He feels like he’ll never  _ not  _ be burning.

“Truth,” Eddie says, in solidarity with everyone else so far.

“How do you feel right now?” Richie asks him. “And be honest.”

He doesn’t know why he asks that question. It just comes out of him. He wants to know the answer, yeah, but it’s not a fun question, or an exciting one, or a probing one. There’s no interesting new gossip to be gleaned from asking. He just wants to know.

Eddie gives him a look, but doesn’t comment on the strangeness of the question. Instead, he says, “Actually, I— I feel sort of optimistic. I think we can do— Doesn’t it feel like we can do anything? Like— Like killing It and— and yelling at my mom, like all of that means we can do  _ anything  _ we want to do?”

Richie gets it. The feeling Eddie describes swells inside him like a balloon the longer he talks, filling him with helium, making him light-headed. Eddie props his chin up on Richie’s chest, looks up at his face.

“Yeah, it does,” Richie says.

“We should play the l-lottery,” Bill suggests.

“I’m not splitting my prize money with you fucking losers, I’m taking it and going out west,” Richie tells them. “Leaving this craphole behind.”

“Will you take us with you?” Bev asks, cheek resting against her knee as she watches Richie. He sits up a little bit, arm still holding Eddie in place. Luckily, Eddie doesn’t move, is barely even jostled; he just settles right back in once Richie’s done.

“If  _ I’m  _ leaving this hellhole, you’re  _ all  _ coming with me,” Richie says. “Fuck the Ferrari, I’ll get a big fucking stoner van and cram you all in the back. We’ll hotbox in it twenty-four-seven and drive ourselves to the west coast and get famous. We’ll go to Hollywood or San Francisco or— or Los Angeles and get really rich and just hang out all the time.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mike agrees.

“Truth or dare, Mike?” Eddie asks.

“Truth,” Mike says.

“Will you come west with us? Instead of Florida?" Eddie asks, and him saying  _ “us”  _ makes Richie’s bones set on fire, makes his skin itch.

“I’ll go wherever you guys go,” Mike answers. Richie rests his head back against the arm of the sofa and lets his friends’ voices wash over him. He hopes it’ll come true, all of it: the van and the road trip and the big house out west for all the Losers to live in together, after they graduate. He knows it’s a long shot, he  _ knows  _ that, but he can’t imagine life without them. It doesn’t sound like a life he wants to live.

* * *

It’s late, when Richie suggests the game. They’re all spread out around his and Eddie’s living room, in various states of alertness. Patty’s fallen asleep curled against Stan’s side on the sofa, and he’s got his arm around her, hand trailing absently up and down her back while she sleeps. Ben and Bev are right next to them, and Bev’s got Audrey sleeping in her arms, barely paying attention to the ongoing threads of conversation because she’s so focused on watching her face as she dreams.

Richie’s sprawled on their sectional, Eddie propped up against his chest, Nora sleeping in his hold, her head on his shoulder. Mike’s under their legs, and Bill’s tucked up against his side, Riley on his lap, fast asleep. The lamp light is soft and dim over them, but it makes the room cozy and warm as it gets later, and the outside gets darker and colder by the second.

“We should play truth or dare,” Richie proposes. “Eddie and I were reading those old letters we wrote to ourselves earlier, it made me think of truth or dare.”

“You mean truth or truth?” Bev asks. “We never did the dares that much.”

“Only when Richie was trying to avoid a truth,” Eddie comments.

“We did enough daring each other throughout the day,” Richie complains. “‘Richie, dare you to eat this dirt.’ ‘Richie, dare you to jump off this cliff—’”

“And you did it every time,” Stan pointed out.

“What, and have you guys think I’m a pussy if I didn’t? No thanks,” Richie scoffs. Eddie laughs, warm and low, and it makes Richie simmer deep inside.

“Richie,” Bev says. She leans her head against Ben’s shoulder, makes eye contact with Richie when he looks to her. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he says, because that’s how they play the game.

“What’d your letter say?” she asks. Richie hums to himself, wondering how much he should say. He winds his fingers subconsciously through Eddie’s hair, scratching his fingers through his curls and over his scalp. Eddie sighs softly.

“Just a reminder to myself, mostly,” Richie says, remembering his own handwriting. “How much I loved you guys.”

“Aw, really?” Ben asks. “That’s really sweet, actually, Richie.”

“Don’t act so shocked, dickhead,” Richie says, and Ben laughs. “No, I— You guys were my real family. I wanted to make sure I remembered that.”

It’s quiet again. Richie hears Bill sniffle, and he laughs, even though he’s tearing up himself.

“I wish we didn’t lose all that time,” Mike says.

“I knew Richie was going to antagonize me for the rest of my life,” Eddie comments. “I warned myself in my letter that he’d be fucking with me until the day I died.”

“You were wrong, because he was still fucking with you  _ months  _ after you died,” Stan points out.

“Even death can’t stop Richie,” Bev says, and the dam breaks, and Richie bursts into tears. Eddie strokes up his arm, making comforting sounds, but Richie just huffs a laugh and shakes his head, covering his face.

“What’s wrong?” Stan asks, reaching over to put his hand on Richie’s leg. Richie grabs his hand, squeezes it.

“I’m just so fucking lucky,” Richie says, breath hitching, and Ben gets up off the sofa to wrap himself around Richie from behind. Richie leans into him, trying to stifle the crying as he laughs through it. “Fuck, you guys suck.”

“Truth or dare, Rich?” Bev asks again.

“I  _ just  _ went in the stupid game and you already made me cry, I’m not going again,” Richie points out.

“Truth or dare,” she insists.

“Truth,” he says, because why not.

“Who was your real first kiss, Rich?” Bev asks, and Richie doesn’t look to Stan this time, because he’s an adult with a semblance of self-control now, at the very least. “Because mine was Bill.”

“Mine was B-Bev,” Bill replies. “School play. But I kissed her again later, too.”

“Mine was Bev, too,” Ben replies.

“And I’ll be your last,” Bev says, and Ben kisses her, smiling.

“If I’m lucky,” Ben replies.

“Mine was Richie,” Stan says quietly. Richie’s the only one who doesn’t turn to look at him when he says it.

“Yeah, uhh,” Richie says, then stops. “Mine was Stan.”

“You didn’t  _ fucking tell me that,”  _ Eddie hisses. “When the hell was that?”

“When we were ten,” Richie says, “I— told Stan everything and told him I wasn’t sure if I liked boys and he offered to kiss me.”

“Turns out he did like boys,” Stan comments, and Richie laughs, grateful, so  _ fucking  _ grateful for his family.

When Richie thinks about his childhood, he doesn’t think of his sister, who he hasn’t seen in decades. He doesn’t think of his mother, who looked through him more often than at him, and who walked out the door when he was seventeen and never looked back. He doesn’t think of his father, who smashed Richie’s face into the door the day he tried to leave for good, and Richie never went back again after. He doesn’t think of his childhood home, of the creaking floorboards and the emptiness and the thick air of fear that swallowed him when he was there.

When Richie thinks about his childhood, he thinks of the wind whipping through his hair as he flies down the street on his bike with the other Losers. He thinks of sunlight reflecting off the water splashed into Eddie’s face when they swim together. He thinks of his friends curled up in a pile in the Clubhouse, holding each other and playing games and telling each other the wonderful things they’d do someday when they were old enough to get out of Derry. He thinks of cassette players blasting power ballads and late night car rides under the stars and smoking behind the gym with Bev. He thinks of the Losers, of the only love he ever knew and still the only love he’s ever really known.

“Eddie, truth or dare?” Richie asks, to stop himself from crying again.

“Truth,” Eddie answers. He readjusts his position, fixes his grip on Nora. Richie can see her face better, now, where her cheek is pressed into Eddie’s shoulder and smushed up so her face is all wrinkled, but he can still see her. She’s got Eddie written all over her, in the curve of her eyelashes and the rise of her cheekbones.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” Richie asks. “Or are we missing anything?”

Eddie looks the room over like he’s contemplating an answer. Though it’s not really an answer, he says, “In my letter, I promised myself that I would never ever forget what I went through that summer with you guys. That I would never forget the— God, what did I say? I think I said that I would never forget our triumphs.” Eddie pauses, then says, “I wish I hadn’t forgot that summer, but I wish I hadn’t forgotten _any _of it. But— Well, now, I guess, we have everything we should’ve had then. I thought a lot about what we’d be like, someday, and I wasn’t ever really sure, but I knew I wanted us to end up all together.”

“That’s beautiful, Eds,” Bev says softly. Richie kisses the top of Eddie’s head.

“So, yeah, I got everything I wanted,” Eddie says. “I’m not fucking Pam Anderson, but it’ll have to do, I guess.”

“I’m the Pam Anderson of guys who got kicked off SNL but still get asked back to host,” Richie jokes, and Eddie twists around to kiss him.

“Hey, who was your first kiss, Eddie?” Ben asks. Eddie’s face flushes.

“Uhh—” Eddie says, then stops. He looks away, face  _ deeply  _ red. Richie’s intrigued. “It was Bev.”

“It was  _ Bev?”  _ Richie demands.  _ “Why?” _

“Because I hadn’t kissed anyone and she offered, dickhead,” Eddie snaps. “We can’t all have our big gay crisis at ten years old and try to kiss Stan, you asshole.”

“It was a nice kiss,” Bev says, smiling.

“Stop reminiscing about kissing my husband, you sicko,” Richie exclaims, and Bev laughs at him.

“Hey, _I_ kissed _Richie_ _ ,”  _ Stan corrects. “I want that to be  _ very  _ clear, I want it on the  _ books  _ that Richie’s a total wimp—”

“I’m not a  _ wimp,  _ I’m  _ repressed,”  _ Richie insists. “There’s a difference! Derry  _ sucks,  _ that’s not on me! Plus, I got  _ good  _ at kissing Stan, we practiced all the  _ time—” _

“Bev kissed me at the end of that summer,” Eddie continues. “I told her I hadn’t kissed anyone and she—”

“—I asked if you had anyone you wanted to kiss,” Bev says, as she remembers. “And you said yes, but that you couldn’t, because they didn’t like you back.”

“And who was  _ that?”  _ Stan asks. “It wasn’t Louise Warren, right?”

“No, it was not  _ Louise Warren,  _ Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie says. “It was fucking Richie,  _ obviously.” _

“What’s obvious about that?” Richie asks, choked up.

“Am I the only one who thought Louise Warren was cute?” Mike asks. “I didn’t know we were anti-Louise.”

“We are not  _ anti-Louise,”  _ Eddie hisses.

“Think she’s still around?” Richie wonders.

“She was  _ our age,  _ Richie,” Eddie says. “What would she have done, disintegrated into fucking dust? We’re not  _ that  _ old.”

“Speak for yourself,” Richie says. “Some of us didn’t get a break in the middle.”

“A  _ break?”  _ Eddie asks.  _ “A break?  _ I don’t think I’d call being dead a fucking  _ break—” _

“It  is  _ technically  _ a break from life,” Richie says, and Eddie kisses him, face tipped up and head leaned back against Richie’s shoulder. It’s so warm, and comfortable, and everything Richie’s ever wanted and never thought he’d get to have, and now can’t imagine his life without. He reaches up, threads his hands through Eddie’s hair, then reaches down to settle his hand over Eddie’s on Nora’s back.

“Truth or dare?” Bill asks the room at large.

“Dare,” Stan answers.

“Risky,” Richie says, whistling. “Haven’t heard someone pick  _ dare  _ in years.”

“You say it like it’s dangerous,” Stan says.

“It is, with us,” Bev comments.

“Dare you to stick around until you’re a hundred years old,” Bill says, grinning. Richie rolls his eyes.

“Cheesy as fuck, you dumbass,” Richie says. “We get it, you’re an author, don’t rub it in—”

“Dare accepted and shared,” Stan replies. “I dare you all to do it, too.”

“Dare accepted,” Bev echoes.

“Done,” Ben agrees. Richie huffs a laugh, burying his face in Eddie’s hair.

“I’ll take that dare,” Richie says.

“Same,” Eddie murmurs.

“Me, too,” Bill says.

“Same here, but all we really have to do is  keep Richie alive, at least,” Mike says, “so he can bring the rest of us back if we fuck it up. Endless mulligans.”

Richie laughs. “Ugh, I’m the  _ worst  _ option to try and keep alive. My liver’s probably the size of a golf ball by now, I  _ can’t  _ be the healthiest. Plus, I’m not a  _ get-out-of-jail free card,  _ fuckin’ shit, Mike, don’t go getting yourself killed just because I  _ can  _ bring you back, because it’s a pretty touch-and-go process.”

“Tragically, it’s hard for us to try and learn what _you _just had shot into _your_ body by a space alien,” Stan deadpans, “so you’ll just have to do, you walking corpse.”

Richie kicks at Stan with his heel. “Love you, too, Stanley.”

“Should we write another letter?” Bill suggests. “To our future s-s-s-selves, I mean. And p-put them back in the box? Open them in another th-th-thirty years?”

It’s quiet for a second. Then, Mike says, “Yeah, actually. I’d like that.”

Eddie sits up so Richie can heave himself off the sofa and get them all paper and pens. He brings them back and dumps them on the coffee table, lets everyone grab their shit for themselves and takes what’s left over for his own. The only pen left is purple; he chews on the end of it as he thinks of what to write.

In the end, it’s a lot similar to his first letter. Reminding himself how lucky he is. Telling himself who his true family is. Speculating on just how happy he’ll be, but asking about Eddie and their kids instead of Michelle Pfeiffer and cocaine. He doodles a little cartoon in the bottom left corner of the seven of them holding hands before he seals the letter up and hands it over to Bill.

“If I forget the next thirty years because of this, I’m gonna be really pissed,” Richie warns, as Bill takes the envelope from his hands. He laughs, sticking it in his bag with his own. Bev hands over hers and Ben’s, too. Eddie’s still furiously scribbling his, still holding Nora carefully in his left arm as he writes. His cramped writing fills the page in a blur of blue ink, but Richie doesn’t read over his shoulder. Instead, he loops his arm around Eddie’s neck and kisses him again, laughing at the indignant noise that punches out of his chest and the squirming hand pushing against his chest.

“C’mon, Richie,” Eddie murmurs, still writing. Richie hooks his chin over Eddie’s shoulder, then shifts up, straightening out so he can prop his head up on the top of Eddie’s head, instead. Eddie sighs.

“I  _ love you,”  _ Richie says, and Eddie grins. “Even if Stan still holds my heart.”

“You never forget your first,” Stan comments, licking his envelope closed. He hands it over to Bill. Mike finishes his and give it up, too, but Eddie’s still scribbling, cramming in as many words as he can. There’s no huge difference between how Eddie talks and how he writes: impossibly fast, incredibly smart, stream of consciousness,  _ madhouse. _

Finally, Eddie finishes. After a moment of hesitation, looking down at his work, he hastily scribbles a postscript into the last remaining bit of white space at the bottom right of the page, then folds it up and seals it. He gives it over to Bill.

“We’ll open them in, what, thirty years?” Ben says.

“Twenty-seven,” Mike corrects. “To be accurate.”

“What the  _ fuck  _ will we be like when we’re that old?” Richie speculates out loud, and they’re quiet for a second, considering.

“Hopefully,” Stan ventures, “just like this.”

Richie reaches out, jabs Stan with his heel again. Stan catches him, wraps his fingers around his ankle and squeezes. Eddie drops his head back against Richie’s chest and settles in again.

“Hopefully,” Richie agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)!


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